Fig me, baby

Europe is a little place: apartments are small, cars are so tiny that I feel emasculated as an American man just by looking at them and elevators are as roomy as the average coffin.

So when I went to a Parisian bodega (here they are called the chic-er “épicerie” and the fourteen year olds buying cheap cigarettes and cheaper beer in them aren’t breaking the law), I was shocked to find nearly baseball-sized figs! Look at that thing! I mean I thought everything was bigger in Texas, but apparently that only applies to beef, hats and hair.

Not only are these figs huge, but they are damn good! The flesh is purple skin in thin and slimy and never hard, and the inside is bursting with sweet crimson figgy goodness and hundreds of those seeds that are so satisfying to crunch. It’s really like the perfect snack. I mean, I have been pushing for years for American movie theaters to serve cured pork products and fruit (for 75 cents extra you can get an extra large movie themed “Harry Pancett-er and the Sorcerer’s Stone Fruit Compote”!), but now I think with these huge amazing figs it has officially transformed from my hair (hare?) brained scheme into a marketable reality.